Resident Evil: Globacide
by kiriutar
Summary: The viral outbreak stemming from Raccoon City wrought havoc on humanity. When humanity suffers, so do their guardians and their government. No one is safe, no matter who you are. AU/AR Rated for violence, adult themes, death, horror.
1. Prologue

"Leon Scott Kennedy. Member of the special forces for boss man. S. T. A. R. S. or somethin' like it. He rescued Ashley from those crazies with the . . . 'Las Plagas' or whatever, right?"

"You truly ought to pay more attention to your first family. And the monopolies."

"Y'know, I never've had much of a mind for that sort of thing. Robbed trains, never funded 'em. More fun that way." He set the manila folder on top of the others that openly littered his desk. Eyes as blue as Montana skies focused on one of the pictures in the "deceased" pile. "Does Antonio know 'bout Louis?"

"It's pronounced loo-EES, not LOO-is. And he was very upset when he was given the news."

The man at the desk frowned at the other facing him. He took off his glasses and leaned his elbows against the edge. With pursed lips and steepled fingers, the blue eyes roved next over the charts and figures. ". . . And Umbrella?"

"Under my control. All of it. Every factor and facet, on a global scale."

". . . I suppose this is where I ask what's to become of my crew when ya become the face of the world."

"Come now, Mr. Jones. You don't think I've made plans for you and the others?"

"I'm sure y'ave. It's just rather hard to trust ya when my skin is falling off in patches as a result of the necrosis of my people."

The other chuckled, red eyes flashing from behind his tinted glasses. The laugh was dry. "You think I want to replace you all?"

". . . No. I think y'wanna own us all."

"Should I give you a price, now?"

"Get the fuck out of my office before I shoot you with the shotgun under my desk."

The man with the red eyes chuckled again. He turned toward the door and had almost closed it behind him when a voice rang out behind him.

"I can't stop it, Wesker. I said things would go haywire because of me. We saw that with Ivan. It's your bug; you kill it."

The office door closed, and the only proof of the meeting was the pile of manila folders filled with test data and the names of those involved with the events stemming from Raccoon City.


	2. London, England 27, 6, 2038 15:00

**AN: Translations are at the bottom. Please read and review; it helps me greatly!**

* * *

Arthur was not having a good day.

His ammo was low, his hand was burned from the repetitive action of reloading his beloved Enfield No. 2 MK 1, and he was barricaded in his office beside the very last person on earth with whom he ever wanted to fight off a zombie apocalypse.

"Ah, **Angleterre**, I am really starting to feel claustrophobic~!" Francis's voice was threaded with desperation.

"Oh, come off it, wanker! Just keep firing that bloody sport gun of yours!"

Arthur grabbed a wax press off what used to be his desk and chucked it bodily down the hall. The zombie that had previously been his prime minister's favorite secretary was soundly brained by the heavy, metal contraption. The living dead man went down, tripping up several of the other zombies behind him. Arthur permitted himself only a brief moment to nurse his swelling pride before he hunkered down once more to continue shooting at the on-coming tide.

"Arthur," Francis pleaded, "I am out of ammunitions. All my .357 caliber bullets have been used-"

"This is why I have as many guns at I do and you only have that stupid, little-"

"It is what my police use!" the Frenchman protested as he grabbed the 9mm silenced Welson from under Arthur's filing cabinet. Long fingers fumbled with the bolt-action, "I prefer my Manhurin revolver to those massive pistols, **merci beaucoup**!" Francis wheeled his arm over the collection of splintered wood-their make-shift barricade-and fired.

"Your coppers're twats, the load of 'em! Right ought to give 'em fuzzy handcuffs with your blessings-!"

"I resent that!" Francis snapped, his teeth grit. The short _thumpk_ of the Welson was still powerful enough to numb his hand as he shot out the kneecaps of the closest pair of corpses.

"You mean you represent that," Arthur sneered.

"You and yours are the ones with the deep-forest orgies-!"

"Pot calling Kettle black, again!" Arthur smacked his blistered palm against the top of his Enfield to separate the barrel from its loading chamber and started his sixth reload.

"I blame your Alfred for this, **Angleterre**!" Francis hissed. "He's always putting his dirty fingers into others' cakes and-"

"Pies, you moron! Pies! If you're going to use an English idiom, say it right-"

"**FAUT-IL VRAIMENT PUTAIN QUESTION SI JE NE DIS PAS IL CORRECTEMENT? VOTRE LANGUE STUPIDE EST LA DERNIÈRE CHOSE SUR MOI POUR LE MOMENT, PARTICULIÈREMENT LORSQUE L'HOMME JE VIENS ABATTU SEPT FOIS JUSTE LEVÉ RETOUR AFIN QU'IL PEUT ME MANGER!**"

The sheer panic in Francis's voice struck a chord with the Britton. His absinthe orbs settled on the profile of the older man beside him and really looked him over. His designer-ware clothes were torn and splattered with decaying body bits. His eyes were rimmed red with strain; his jaw was so tense that if his tongue got caught between his teeth, it would be cut off cleaner than a guillotine's stroke. And he was shaking. Francis was always cool and collected. Even when riled, he only make catty remarks and turned up his nose. An actor at heart, there was always a porcelain mask of exaggeration over his true face. But in the face of unnatural terror, it had been wholly removed. A terrified Francis was something different entirely.

Arthur turned back to the slowly dwindling horde. He kept his voice even: "Shoot him twice in the forehead, and he'll drop like a stone."

Francis adjusted his aim and squeezed off a few short bursts. Two more zombies dropped as their skulls exploded. "**Pardonnez-moi**, I am just . . . a little on edge from all this," he murmured.

Arthur was not about to bring attention to the other's lie. "We need to get out of here. Our ammo's too low to hole up in this place for much longer."

"How far is it to the garage?" Francis asked.

"Too far to be safe. I think we should be okay making it to the street-"

"**Vous êtes fou**!" Francis's shot went wide as he whipped his head around to face Arthur.

"There'll be more room to move," Arthur said. "We can take one of the cars on the street, if it becomes necessary."

Francis slowly nodded his understanding, "You head out first. I'll cover you."

Arthur moved over the barricade and shot at the horde as it surged to meet him. He fled down the hallway. The blond ambassador took great pleasure in kicking out the teeth of several mostly-dismembered zombies. A voice sounded behind him, swearing colorfully in French as the bark of a semi-automatic pistol announced the secondary demise of several more moaning corpses. The Britton's fingers fumbled with the keypad beside the floor's blast door. Eventually, the light atop the contraption blinked green as the metal door slid open.

"**Déplacez votre âne avant vous devenez chien alimentaire**!"

Arthur turned just in time to see a blond and blue blur pass him by. His ere widened as he saw several messy terriers and bloodhounds come barreling down the hallway, their muzzles and coats stained with blood and excrement. Their milky eyes settled on him as they picked up speed. Arthur dived through the door and slammed his palm repeatedly against the closing mechanism.

"C'mon! C'mon!"

Arthur looked up as the door began to slide down. It was not moving fast enough. Both he and Francis shot at the dogs, cringing as several of them went down with a _yelp_. But they kept coming. Their fur and skin fell off in clumps as they sped on. One of the terriers lunged forward, clearing the door right as it closed. The dog skidded across the marble floor of the lobby, and it scrambled for purchase, banking around to get at the two men.

Francis made an undignified noise and jumped up onto a desk in a vain attempt to put space between himself and the dog. He panicked as the pistol clicked empty. In a last-ditch effort, he chucked the handgun at the mongrel and fell backward. It dodged and leapt. Francis shrieked.

Suddenly, the terrier was flying across the room in the opposite direction and Francis's nose was being tickled by a wooden paddle. He looked up at Arthur.

The Englishman smirked: "And to think, I used to yell at Alfred when he'd hit the cat across the yard." He hefted the blood-spattered cricket bat onto his shoulder with a maniacal British grin. He sighed, more at ease than he had been in a long while. "Today's going to be a good day, don't you agree?"

If Francis had not fainted at that precise moment, he would have pissed himself in relief.

* * *

translations:

**Angleterre **= England

**merci beaucoup **= thank you very much

**FAUT-IL VRAIMENT PUTAIN QUESTION SI JE NE DIS PAS IL CORRECTEMENT? VOTRE LANGUE STUPIDE EST LA DERNIÈRE CHOSE SUR MOI POUR LE MOMENT, PARTICULIÈREMENT LORSQUE L'HOMME JE VIENS ABATTU SEPT FOIS JUSTE LEVÉ RETOUR AFIN QU'IL PEUT ME MANGER! **= DOES IT REALLY FUCKING MATTER IF I DON'T SAY IT RIGHT? YOUR STUPID LANGUAGE IS THE LAST THING ON MY MIND RIGHT NOW, ESPECIALLY WHEN A MAN I SHOT SEVEN TIMES JUST GOT UP TO HE CAN EAT ME!

**Pardonnez-moi **= Forgive me

**Vous êtes fou! **= Are you crazy!

**Déplacez votre âne avant vous devenez chien alimentaire! = **Move your ass before you become dog food!


	3. Archangel, Russia 6, 12, 2037 19:00

Far in the North, the Plague had yet to take a firm hold. The cold and the distance between villages kept it quite safe. But Ivan knew it would not last forever.

Ivan Braginski refused to believe his Southern comrades could have fallen so quickly. In the heat and humidity of the South, China had become a breeding ground for the Plague. Yao, his dear friend, had simply collapsed in a fit before lunging for the neared living creature. Ivan got the first shot. The second bullet was his, too. The Chinese man had finally stopped when Ivan grabbed him by the shoulder and the jaw and twisted. The break was so brutal, Yao's head turned completely around.

Thirteen men lost their lives trying to stop the infected Yao. Ivan, himself, was missing a large chunk out of his deltoid, shirt, and coat. The men had to be shot, too, to keep the Plague contained. Ivan would survive contamination. Russia always survived.

The Russian stood outside the compound gates, staring into the white wasteland surrounding the cinderblock and steel structure. Icily violet eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of his sisters. Natalia and Katyusha were never far from Ivan's reach, but he had begun to worry when the phones went dead outside the Russian border. Little Toris had remained behind in St. Petersburg to await the arrival of Ivan's relatives, but the Lithuanian was the one who phoned in that the boarder had been sealed, just as Ivan;s superiors had ordered.

"Your heavy thinking will make your brain bleed, child."

Ivan's brows furrowed at the deep rasp in his ear. "Toris says they won't be coming."

"Do you think they would have surrendered to the Plague?"

The Russian turned and looked fully into the face of the spectral General Winter. "**Nyet**. They would never. They will never surrender."

"Then why do you hang your hopes instead upon the shoulders of the sick foreigner in your bunkhouse?" the ghost snarled.

"Because Matvey will survive, too."

The mustache of the ghost quivered in anger. "The brother of the insolent American-!"

"Matvey will survive," Ivan repeated. "The ice dictates it. And Wesker promised."

General Winter began to tower over him: "You trust these foreigners? They will bring ruin to us, you will see! You will destroy us all, Russia!"

"I have heard that before, General." Ivan;s reply was little more than a confident murmur.

"Ivan? Who're you talking to, eh? Old Man Winter, again?"

Ivan turned from the fading visage. Looking behind the fenced gates, he saw two weak eyes staring back. Pale purple fingers laced themselves through the wire mesh while the other hand clutches a thick blanket around a skinny frame.

"Da, the General wanted to speak. You should not be up. No shoes, no jacket-"

"It feels better out here," the blond replied. "And you're one to talk; you left your coat inside. I-I know it's being patched . . ." The other man's voice trailed off, lost in the falling snow. His eyes turned to the ground that was slowly turning his toes blue. He'd heard what happened to Yao.

Ivan opened the gate and came back into the compound. He took the ends of the blanket and wrapped it tighter around the other. The beavers on the man's night clothes screamed his patriotism to the skies. If it meant keeping them from sight, he would make sure the blanket was tied tight.

"Trying to make yourself well, da? Get colder so fever goes down? Won't help if Ivan must warm for frostbite."

"Ivan, I know I'm sick," the slightly shorter blond protested. "I want to know you're alright."

The Russian almost smiled at that. "Alright?"

Blond waves fell into the younger's eyes. "You weren't the only one close to Yao. But you certainly knew him best, outside his family. It must've hit you hard to have . . ." He trailed into mumbling again.

"Yao was close. Close ones get lost. It happens. Move on."

The golden strands bounced as he nodded.

". . . You are worried for your brothers, da?"

All Ivan received was a shrug.

"Alfred will survive. As will you, Matvey. I sympathize for losing the others. Hong-Kong and Yong-Soo will not survive with Yao's people infected with Plague. China . . . well." Ivan knew he did not have to elaborate.

"I;m still worried about who may be next."

Ivan could see the weight on the shoulders of the man before him. It made him seem incredibly small, though Matvey was nearly his height, even when slouched. He seemed almost in danger of disappearing.

He struggled slightly to pronounce his name correctly: "Mat-yoo, some things cannot change. Past is passed. Alfred made a big mistake, crossing Wesker. He did not deserve his punishment. He will not fall. I promise. Russia never breaks his promise."

The eyes that met Ivan;s were skeptical at best, but they still held a spark, the beauty of the Northern Lights: hope. "It's downright terrifying to hear you say that, Ivan."

The corners of the Russian's mouth lifted in a teeth-bared grin. "Good. Now, we get warm, da?"


	4. Timestamp: 10:43:47, Video

_So . . . entry numero uno._

_So far, I haven't felt a thing. Well, that's not true, I guess. I've got some swellin' in my arm around the injection site. See? I dun think it's supposed to be bluish like that. But, hey, what do I know?_

_. . . Ya know, Wesker, this whole thing'd be a neat idea for a documentary. Well, if you hadn't made me sign that contract where I gotta keep quiet about all this, it would._

_Anyway, I'm gonna go eat. Later._


	5. Rome, Italy 24, 6, 2038 10:00

Romano held Venezio tightly as the more personable twin wailed into his shoulder. The front door rattled on its hinges from the barrages of machinegun fire. The Vargas brothers were hunkered down under the stairwell of their two-story apartment, while their associates kept the streets clear of the **Cadaveri Viventi **by any means necessary. The Italian mob might not have been particularly favored by the people they served, but their version of **perizia** certainly came in handy.

Romano grit his teeth, his .22 Long Rifle Beretta in one hand, his younger twin's ear in the other. The sounds coming from outside made his skin crawl. **Cadaveri Viventi** were supposed to be a myth! Romano could remember the stories **Nonno** Roma would tell to scare them. Now, those stories were coming true. Dark things were stirring even under **Basilica di s. Pietro**. No place was sacred, no place was safe. How many people were there, now, praying for salvation?

Venezio's terrified whimpering was muffled somewhat from having his head pressed into his big brother's collarbone. With every scream, he would cry out himself, tears staining his **fratello**'s shirt.

"**Oh, Signore! Oh, Signore, fratello, ci accingiamo a morire! Stanno andando a mangiare ci vivo e ci saranno solo sanguinose vestiti di sinistra! Non si potrà mai vedere la luce del giorno di nuovo! Non voglio morire!**" the young Italian wailed.

"Shut up, Veni!" Romano hissed. He clapped his hand over the still-moving mouth and looked out of the crack in the door. From what little he could see, the house was still clear, although there were several large, slow shapes massing outside the windows. He closed his eyes and cooed to his helplessly babbling baby brother.

The banging on the walls, doors, and windows seemed to grow louder the longer they stayed. Every few minutes, Venezio would jump and scream in fright as bullets ripped through the walls above their heads, spattering the twins with blood, brick, and drywall. Venezio continued to cry, shaking like a leaf under his brother's arm. Romano growled and made a decision.

"Get up," Romano said. "Get up, you whiny pig, we can't stay here."

Venezio shook his head and pressed closer: "No! No, we will die if we go out there!"

Romano snarled, "Veni! **Per l'amore di Deo**, we'll die here if we don't!"

Venezio just clung tighter. Romano groaned. "You stupid pansy! We've got to-"

More gunfire, and Venezio screamed in terror.

"Veni, please!"

Suddenly, glass began to shatter in the front room. Romano looked out through the crack and his breath caught in his throat. One of the windows had been broken and several **Cadaveri Vivienti** were pushing their way through the shards of glass like salami through a press. And Romano panicked.

"**SPOSTARE!**"

He kicked open the door as another window cracked under the pressure of several bodies pushing against it. He lifted his Beretta and put down two of them before he grabbed Venezio under the arm and all but dragged him up the stairs to the second floor. The two ran into the master suite they shared, locking doors behind them as they went.

Venezio collapsed on the bed, sobbing, "**Noi stiamo andando a morire! Noi stiamo andando a morire-**"

"_**Per favore**_** si sarebbe chiusa la tappola**!" Romano paced back and forth, going over the city streets in his head. "Where can we go that'll be safe? The docks?"

Venezio shook his head: "They'll be full of **Cadaveri **and people trying to get away. We'll get pushed into the sea."

Romano growled in frustration. "Well, we can't go to the Basilica-"

"Why not?" Venezio asked, his head tilted. He jumped as something made a loud crash in the hallway. He whimpered in distress.

Romano continued to pace: "The Vatican City will be swarming with people begging for entry. It'll draw all the **Cadaveri** and it'll be a massacre."

"We could . . ." Venezio trailed off, flinching again as the banging got closer.

"Could what, **fratello**?"

". . . hide in the catacombs?"

Romano looked at his little brother like he had grown a second head.

"Those corpses are all bone, so they can't move, **si**? So much death means **Cadaveri Viventi** won't be looking for us there."

Romano thought about it for a moment. It made more sense, the more he thought about it. There was only the drawback of getting into the catacombs alive. And then, there was getting lost and getting out.

The elder twin nodded: "It looks like we're going back to our Renaissance days, Veni."

"Huh?"

Romano kicked out the window and jumped onto the fire escape before hauling himself up onto the roof. "**Rapidamente**, **fratello**! Like Ezio!" Romano took a running start and leapt from one rooftop to the next.

"ROMANO!"

The Italian rolled as he hit the gravel on the neighboring rooftop. He bounced back up and grinned at Venezio. "Hurry! Come on!"

Venezio crawled out of the window and nearly fell when the bedroom door suddenly rattled upon its hinges.

"Romano, they're getting in!" Venezio screamed.

"Jump to me! I'll catch you!"

The younger brunette launched himself across the alley toward his brother, catching hold of his sleeves and slamming against the brick wall. Hanging precariously from the edge of the roof, Romano looked up to see one of the **Cadaveri** leaning out the window, trying in vain to grab the two brothers.

The elder Vargas twin lifted his Beretta and shot it between the eyes.

When both he and Venezio were safe on the roof, Romano looked around. "How far which way . . .?"

Venezio smiled through his panting, "Vee~! You're the one who lives here, Romano! Romano should know his way around Rome!"

Romano made a face. "It's different seeing it from up here, numbskull!"

"**Fratello**, you don't have to be so mean!"

* * *

**Cadaveri Viventi **= Living Corpses

**perizia **= expertise

**Nonno** = Grampa

**Basilica di s. Pietro **= St. Peter's Basilica

**fratello **= brother

**"Oh, Signore! Oh, Signore, fratello, ci accingiamo a morire! Stanno andando a mangiare ci vivo e ci saranno solo sanguinose vestiti di sinistra! Non si potrà mai vedere la luce del giorno di nuovo! Non voglio morire!**" = Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord, brother, we are going to die! They're going to eat us alive and there will be only bloody clothes left! We will never see the light of day again! I don't want to die!

**Per l'amore di Deo **= For the love of God

**SPOSTARE! = **MOVE!

"**Noi stiamo andando a morire! Noi stiamo andando a morire-**" = "We're gonna die! We're gonna die-"

"_**Per favore**_** si sarebbe chiusa la tappola**!" = "Will you _please _shut your trap!"

**Rapidamenti **= Quickly


	6. London, England 27, 6, 2038 15:47

Arthur peeked over the window sill to observe the street below. He quickly pulled back and forced himself to breathe through a wave of nausea.

"**Angleterre**?"

Arthur looked up into Francis's worried gaze. He blinked away tears: "It smells like a rotten battlefield out there. Parliament's front door's stuffed with the buggering beasts."

Beyond their sanctuary, London continued to echo with shrieking and cries for Providence. Arthur could only shudder as those pleas rang in his ears and reverberated in his heart. Francis sympathized: this horror was also happening in Paris, Brittany, Normandy, Regret . . .

"We have to find a route that won't bring us right out that way," Arthur said, "and the parking lot is still not an option."

Francis closed his mouth, beaten to the punch. Both blonds began formulating their own plans. After a few moments of contemplative silence, the Frenchman spoke.

"What if we paid homage to your days of delinquency?"

". . . What?" Arthur's eyes, flashed in warning.

"A boat, **mon cher**," Francis patiently explained. "I highly doubt that those things have proper enough motor function to swim. We'd be safe. And we could rescue others by the riverside."

The Britton's eyes cooled considerably at the thought of rescuing his citizens. "We'd have to be careful of whom we take aboard," Arthur thought aloud. "If they're bitten, there is no sanctuary."

"Dead walking," Francis agreed. "The two questions remaining are how do we get to the Thames River, and what boat do we commandeer?"

Arthur worried his lip between his teeth, thinking, wracking his memory.

"As I recall, there are several tunnels leading to the sewers from the riverside. I think that there's an old rowboat of sorts still in there-"

"**Non**," Francis interrupted. "We ought to stay out of confined spaces, if we can. And with how our memories run together, that boat will most likely have rotted into splinters by now."

Arthur gave the fop an indignant look. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it, you come up with a plan!"

"**Mon cher, s'il vous plait**," Francis crooned, "we just need to think this though."

Both of them fell silent, their thoughts only broken by the occasional gunshots throughout the city. Francis watched Arthur patiently, swallowing around his dry tongue as he silently encouraged the gears in the Britton's head to turn.

"A sailboat," Arthur said finally. "If we can get to the river, we can motor to the harbor and get a full-rig monohull." He looked up at the other, and gave Francis a look for the confused expression he was receiving. "I know what to look for, okay? We'll have to find provisions for whomever we may pick up, too. There's one thing that bothers me, however."

Francis arched a brow.

"Will you be alright?"

The Frenchman gawked openly for a moment before his eyes hardened with determination. "You always said I needed to get my sea legs sometime."

Arthur searched his face for a long moment. When he nodded, both men stood and retreated from the window.


	7. Archangel, Russia 8, 12, 2037 22:56

Matthew's private quarters were in the heart of Ivan's bunkhouse. If it were not for Ivan's word that he would not be bothered by any of the soldiers, Matthew would have felt very uneasy about being among such heavily armed people, let alone several kilometers underground. Not that his own fighting force had not been similarly be equipped, but it was nice to know some Russian commando would not be breaking down his door for one reason or another.

Dr. Matthew Williams was a botanist, when the lines were drawn, and he was particular about his exacting science. He even went so far as to repeatedly correct his family when they generalized him as a "scientist." In the winter, he was holed up in the preservation rooms underneath the Royal British Columbian Museum, studying the rarest of the specimens. His summers were spent collecting from and cataloguing in the field. Tree samples were his favorite, particularly the red cedar the First Nation peoples love so much. Even the youngest trees were hardy and strong. The oldest were tall, scarred, and weather-worn, but they seemed almost as full of vigor and youth as the smaller saplings among them. Matthew secretly compared himself and all his companions to those trees: nearly immortal. War, fire, flood, famine, and infestation had only left scrapes and bruises. But, if something struck down one of them, it would quickly kill them all. He was terrified that this Pestilence would be the bug, the virus that finally destroyed them.

Matthew was determined to find the antidote. If there was anything he'd learned in his several hundred years, nature-made was nature-cured. Certainly, anything man-made was also of nature. Why should there not be a cure amongst the world's foliage?

One thing Matthew preferred was not handling specimens of anything other than botany. He enjoyed hunting and trapping, but dressing an elk for butchery was very different from preserving the whole creature for continued scientific study. But, seeing as how he was the self-imposed and sole researcher of an antidote, he figured he would have to, as his brother would say, "grow a pair" and work with what he was given. Unfortunately for Dr. Williams, that included handling the corpse of Wang Yao.

Yao's body was stretched out on a large autopsy table that Ivan had ordered be set up in the room adjacent to Matthew's own. Torso currently opened and stuck like a lab frog, Yao's face was covered by a folded sheet. Matthew was having a very difficult time working through the methodical dismemberment of his former colleague. It was one thing to work with plants, another with animals. But human autopsy? Matthew had already emptied his stomach twice into a nearby trash reciprocal.

Matthew did not understand how Yao could have become infected. The eccentric economist had an extensive security detail to preserve him, even when he had still been walking the streets of Beijing. He had no wounds, other than the twenty-odd bullet holes that littered his body and the massive trauma to his neck. No bite marks, no scratches, no open cuts; he could have gotten blood or debris spatter in his mouth, Matthew supposed. But upon pursuit of the hypothesis, he only found Yao's own blood, presumably from when he was shot, and Ivan's.

Matthew was currently combing through the hair-like fibers of Yao's lungs. If Matthew found nothing, then he would run wholly out of options. The blond looked to his left, gaze resting upon the blood-smeared sheet.

"It's very disconcerting, you know. Not hearing you speak." Matthew turned back to the deep purple of Yao's bronchial tubes. "I can't remember a single time where you didn't have a word of wisdom for the rest of us, eh. Well, if you've got some for me now, it'd be a great help."

He paused in his work.

The room remained silent.

Matthew sighed and continued cutting into the soft organ under his fingers. "I know that this sort of thing doesn't happen often. Hell, all I can remember is Gil being offed. I know there've been others . . . I doubt anyone would have thought you'd go, Yao."

The room once again fell into a tense quiet as he focused on his work. But the vast silence of the cold, metal room made Matthew uneasy.

"Yao, I'm positive there was nothing wrong with you. Your body's fit and strong, even with the wear-and-tear in your knees and hands. I can't find any sign of infection. No rot, no prior coagulation of fluids, no blood in your mouth that I can't trace, no bite marks-! I have nothing. I don't know what I might've missed, but I've got nothing."

Matthew allowed his head to drop onto the metal slab, repeating the action a few more times for good measure. ". . . Maybe I'm just not at the top of my game because I'm sick."

"That could entirely be the case, aru."

Matthew's head snapped up, looking at the cadaver that was pulling the sheet off its face. Yao's smiling visage slid into view and the blond Canadian scrambled back with a cry. Yao looked down at his front with a look of curiosity and openly began prodding at his exposed innards while Matthew's jaw hit the floor at about the same time his backside did. Lively brown eyes met terrified blue: "So, I really did fall on my sword, aru?"

Matthew gaped for a moment before he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I really am sick. Fever induced hallucinations, no doubt."

Yao got off the slab, smiled at Matthew, and said, "Yeah, you're sick. You're going to die! Just like me!" Matthew's eyes widened in terror as he stared up at the dead man before him. Yao started to laugh as the door was thrown open.

"Matvey?"

Matthew whirled around his eyes locked onto the lilac staring back. His head whipped around and he observed the corpse upon the table, the sheet pulled to the floor by Matthew's falling. As it dawned on the Canadian that he had really been hallucinating, he began to cry. A pair of large, strong arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders and he was shifted into a lap. He cried softly into the repaired coat, inhaling the scent of sweat, tasting vodka and salt upon its fibers.

". . . It's getting worse, little bear?"

Matthew nodded, too shaken to speak.

". . . Come. Ivan will make some of that tea you like. Keep you company, da?"

Matthew had not yet nodded before he was hoisted into the air and carried from the dark room.

This was why he liked working with plants.


	8. Timestamp: 57:25:21, Video

_Okay, so. Update . . . 24, I think._

_I'm starting to forget things. Like, important things. Very important things._

_Like Mattie's birthday for instance. Yeah, I know you don't remember who Mattie is-no one does. Or rarely, anyway. And I never forget his birthday. Ever. The present'll be a few days late, maybe, but I never forget his birthday._

_I thought his birthday was yesterday. Yesterday was March first. MARCH._

_Ohhhh . . . I really think something's weird with me. I'm ridiculously hungry, man. Like, all the time. And I know if you ask anybody else, they'll say that nothing's different about that. I'm, like, eating almost nothing but steak. Rare steak. Bloody steak. THE-MEAT-IS-STILL-FRIKKIN'-MOO-ING steak._

_And Tony's avoiding me. I can't pin the stupid, gray asshole down! He runs from the fucking room when I come back from a meeting. Had I mentioned that before? I think I might've . . ._

_Gah! It just pisses me off! Grrah! Grrrr-! Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

_. . . hah . . . hah . . . eh-heh-heh. Sorry. About that. Uh . . . yeah, I'll be okay. Ha. Ahaha. I guess I gotta replace that section of drywall, now . . . I'll do that before I forget it._


	9. Rome, Italy 24,6, 2038 12:24

Romano panted quietly as he sat in the shade of a rooftop alcove. The noon-day sun was stifling. But the heat was nowhere near as oppressive as the stench of rotting meat wafting up from the streets of the city. He clapped his hand over his nose and groaned.

"**Fratello**," he whined. "You're insane."

"**Scusi**?" Venezio turned from his corner perch where he was observing the horde of **Cadaveri Viventi **massed under his shadow. "Insane?"

"Sitting there, watching them try to get at you." Romano went to look down at them. He grimaced when he realized what his brother had been so intently eyeing. "They're eating each other, now?"

"Do you think they'd like pasta bolognaise?" Venezio wondered aloud.

Romano looked sharply at the flighty Italian. He looked back down as one of the **Cadaveri **gave a hideous cry, her fellows turning on her as the freshest source of meat. She probably had been felled by gunfire, and infected by blood spatter, but she did not sport bite marks. Well, Romano could no longer rightly say that. He flinched as several **Cadaveri** ripped off one of her arms, devouring her barely corroded flesh as they would the body of an uninfected.

Romano had the distinct urge to become sick and staggered away from the edge of the roof, his throat seizing up against the churning of his stomach. There was no way in Hell that he would allow himself to become like those things. Or let Venezio.

"Veni, we need to get moving. If we wait too long, we won't reach the Vatican before sundown."

"**Fratello**, aren't the lights on timers? They turn on automatically, **si**?"

Romano blinked. He frowned deeper as he gave the notion some thought: ". . . I don't think that'll make it all that much better. Nastier things might come out at night. And those things down there certainly don't sleep."

"I guess . . ." Venezio trailed off.

He reluctantly stood and faced his big brother, dusted off his hands, and picked a stick up from the pebbles on the rooftop.

"Veni, the **Cadaveri** don't recognize surrender," Romano said.

"Maybe so, but I'm sure there will be others who will see!" He tied a dirty, white rag to the top and gave it a wave, smiling and giggling in satisfaction.

"And what'll you do when you drop it?"

"I'll make another!"

Romano heaved a sigh. Some things will never change, he supposed. "Alright, surrender-monkey, can we go now?"

Venezio's smile suddenly faltered. He tilted his head in confusion.

"To Saint Peter's Square, Veni," Romano reminded his brother. "Actually, I need to find a gun shop. I'm almost out of ammo."

The lighter brunette grinned and nodded. "Can we get some gelato, too?"

"No, Veni. We can't get some gelato. It's too risky."

Both Italians took a moment to quietly mourn the loss of their beloved dessert.

". . . **L Cadaveri di Vita** **succhiare polpette**," Venezio muttered.

"**Si. Si, lo fanno**," Romano agreed.

The elder brother held his twin for a brief moment before they, once again, headed off towards the center of the city.

* * *

Veni slipped.

Romano had been surprised by a group of **Cadaveri**. And, try as he might, he could not hold back the tide as they surged from across the room of a penthouse flat. His Berretta barked out several clean shots as Veni screamed in terror, flailing his flag in desperation. The elder Italian let out a defiant cry, and barreled into one of the corpses, shoving it back through a window. He heard something crack in the decomposing body, and it did not rise. Romano grabbed up a piece of glass-bladed wood as he ran back outside. He brandished it like a **gladiolus**, his **nonno**'s sword, and he hacked hunks off the three remaining **Cadaveri**.

"Romano!"

He turned, only to watch helplessly as the corpse he presumed finished fall over the edge, dragging his beloved **fratello **over the edge of the rooftop.

"Veni!"

He ran for the edge. All he saw was the fluttering of his baby brother's flag as it disappeared into the darkness of the alley below.

"VENI!"

* * *

"**L Cadaveri di Vita succhiare polpette.**" = "The Living Corpses suck meatballs."

"**Si. Si, lo fanno**." = "Yes. Yes, they do."

**gladiolus** = Roman infantry sword of tempered iron.


	10. Timestamp: 64:34:87

_Update . . .32. Or something around there._

_I broke Francis's fingers today._

_I told him before to not touch Mattie, but the stupid Frenchie don' listen to anyone but hisself._

_He came up behind him and started feelin' Mattie up-like he always does._

_Now it won' happen. No one'll not listen to what I say goes._

_I had Mattie move in wi' me. He's been shakin' all week-I think he's comin' down with somethin'._

_He keeps tellin' me that Tony's been gone for weeks. I keep seein' the fucker around the house. Why won' Mattie believe me?_

_If I catch that li'l gray asshole, I'mma beat his ass back to-_

_**CRASH!**_

_. . ._

_. . . Oh, sh-_

_MATTIE! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU BREAK?_

_I-I'm sorry, Al-_

_WHAT THE HELL DID Y-_

_. . ._

**-The video was suddenly disconnected.-**

**-He probably knocked his desk over when he got up. I forwarded the Secret Service files on the incident to your email. I also included the file from the emergency center where Matthew was treated. Alfred really let go, didn't he?-**

**-I suppose it's a good thing the emergency room surgeon was more preoccupied with Matthew's broken throat and shattered skull. Otherwise, there might have been more questions about the bite on his chest.-**

**-Shall I call up the next video file?-**

**[ Yes ] [ No ]**

_. . . Click._


	11. Archangel, Russia 4, 1, 2038 13:10

"He is hallucinating, Wesker. I do not know what to do."

Ivan leaned casually against the desk in his room. He cradled the dark satellite handset between his shoulder and his ear as he fumbled with a coffee pot and a plain mug.

"**Nyet**, he isn't showing aggression. Just . . . he seems skittish. Like a mouse caught in a corner. I think the visions are depriving him of sleep."

His hands were fairly steady for the numbness in his fingers. Poor circulation did nothing to reduce his size, but it certainly made staying warm a lot more of a nuisance. He listened to the voice in his ear as he poured the burnt, dark liquid-clarity into the mug. Briefly, he divided his attention, looking about for one of his many bottles of vodka. Something was said that made him pause.

"You do not think that is true, da? He isn't responding like the other two."

Ivan sat down, the coffee temporarily forgotten. His eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed, and he gripped the handset and pressed it to his ear. He growled softly.

"Wesker, let me make something perfectly clear. I was bitten. Twice, now. Just like Matvey. Yao was not. Yao also was not one of your test subjects, unless you've kept that from me."

The corner of his mouth quirked upward in the parody of a smirk.

"Then how could he have become-?"

The smirk was gone. Ivan's eyes widened as comprehension made clear the riddle. The voice on the other end of the connection held the conversation for a few moments.

"This could happen to any of us. Da, I understand what this means. How long do you think the others have?"

He sat back in his chair and heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose - - - a habit he had picked up from the annoying American.

"Keeping the others in isolation would be pointless, da? Matvey could use some company."

Ivan turned and gazed at the many television screens set into one of the walls, watching his former comrades pace and preoccupy themselves in several of the many holding cells within the bunker.

"Hn? Repeat that?" Ivan glanced at one of the screens in particular, watching with soft eyes. ". . . He's still digressing. He's speaking something that I can only assume is the theorized 'Proto Indo-European.' It makes no sense to me."

Ivan closed his eyes.

"I don't want to keep him here. When you're through with him, he should be disposed of, or sent to his brother."

Ivan listened, then nodded.

"Yong-Soo, Kiku, and their bodyguard will be released shortly. As for Gilbert . . . I keep an eye on him. Da, **das vidanya**."

He hung up the phone, noticed the coffee on his desk, and picked up the mug. He swirled the cooling liquid.

"Matvey, I hope I'm doing the right thing."

* * *

Yong-Soo sat on the desk in the holding cell he currently shared with Big Brother Kiku and big brother's lady friend. He chewed on his fingertips, anxious, hungry, and cold. Ivan's place was always too cold. It made his Southern blood crystallize in his veins and his temper sour. He was bored of watching Kiku hold conversation with his subordinate. It was irksome that Kiku spoke in Japanese. Yong-Soo was tired of mentally translating his brother's language into his own. Japanese was beautiful in it's own way, sure, but _Korean_ was a work of modern art. Kiku must have thought himself smart, Yong-Soo supposed, to steal Yao's pictograms and use them for different sounds and meanings. Yong-Soo somewhat agreed that the Japanese _hirigana_, _katakana_, and _kanji_ were easier to learn than Mandarin, or Cantonese, or whatever Yao decided to speak that day. But neither of his brothers had such a simple, perfect alphabet like he did. And the geometric symbols actually looked like what they represented, instead of slashes and dots that were reminiscent of by-gone dynasties that no one particularly cared about, anymore. Yong-Soo scoffed to himself at the thought.

The sound caught the attention of the woman Kiku had insisted accompany them to Ivan's ice-bound castle. Yong-Soo avoided her gaze as she looked him over before returning to her conversation with his brother.

Yong-Soo had not met her before, this Ada Wong, but both of his elder brothers spoke highly of her. Who would not glorify the most beautiful of women, especially when that feminine grace was as deadly as it was elegant? Yong-Soo took that moment to firmly decide that his brothers had very peculiar taste in women.

The Korean textile designer licked his lips as he watched the other two occupants of the room. He whined softly as he remembered how hungry he was. His stomach gurgled and he closed his eyes against another wave of nausea. Was he _still_ not over the air sickness from the jet? They had been waiting for several hours; surely, his motion sickness would have mellowed out by now. His throat tasted bitter and metalic, like he had bitten his lip. Finally, he could stand it no longer.

He got up from his chair and banged on the door of the cell: "AIYA! If you're gonna keep us locked up in here, maybe you could at least have the decency to give us food, or blankets, or _something_! Really, like, is that _so hard_?"

The Russian soldier on the other side of the door just stood there, ignoring the heavily-accented yelling in his ear.

"You know, it's very rude to ignore guests! Like you would know that, you white ape-!"

"Y-Yong-Soo?"

The Korean's face lit up and the conversation behind him was cut short.

"Canada!"

Matthew's eyes darkened in warning and he glanced toward the guard beside him. From between the bars, the North American took in the state of the occupants of the room beyond. He was quiet for several moments while his Korean friend blathered on about how good it was to see him again, how horribly he was being treated, and how hungry he seemed to be.

". . . Hey, Mat-chu, are you okay? You look, like, as if you've had your head in a **kimchi** pot." Yong-Soo frowned, "You haven't been smoking, again, have you?"

Matthew blinked the darkness from the sides of his vision and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment: "N-no, I haven't. Ivan doesn't approve of my infatuation with Mary Jane . . . Won't let me have any."

Yong-Soo winced, his stomach suddenly doing flips. There was something off about his friend. He could almost swear he _smelled_ something off. It was almost as though something in his head was telling him there was something wrong with Matthew - - - that Yong-Soo was much lower on the food-chain than the calm blond in front of him. Yong-Soo grimaced as another wave of nausea hit him, the strongest yet he'd experianced. The leaden weight that had settled in his stomach started to coil and turn, stealing his breath and making his knees weak.

Matthew frowned. "Hey, man, y'dun look so good. Y'wanna sit down, eh..?" His eyes widened as his gaze settled under the other's nose.

". . . Yong-Soo . . . Your nose is bleeding."

Kiku's head snapped to look at his companion, and Ada shoved the small man behind her.

Yong-Soo tapped his finger to his upper lip and looked at the drop of crimson liquid.

He looked up at Canada through the bars of the cell door. Dark brown eyes met the soft violet of his friend - - - of his best friend - - - and they rolled back in his head. Time nearly stood still as the Korean sank to the ground.

"Otouto-!" Kiku cried and he tried to rush forward, but Ada held him back.

"Do not approach him." She shot a look to the Russian guard beside Matthew, "Both of you keep out there!"

Matthew could only watch, helpless with shock, as Yong-Soo convulsed violently upon the floor. Somewhere behind him, he was vaugely aware of the Russian commando phoning the main security detail and Ivan. It seemed a full minute before the tremors finally ceased.

Kiku was the first to speak. "What happened-?"

He was cut off as the younger Asian stirred and slowly began to rise. Matthew watched in silence as Yong-Soo stood. The front of his shirt was stained heavily with his own blood, and his once feather-fair chocolate locks seemed lank and matted. Yong-Soo's countanance lifted.

Matthew was not prepared to meet his milky eyes.

Yong-Soo shrieked and lunged at the bars, his hands clawing at air as Matthew was jerked back from the door by the Russian guard. He flailed and screamed in frustration, throwing all his weight at the door.

Matthew's stomach rolled at the sight. "Yong-Soo."

The sound of his name made the Korean freeze, dead eyes blinking in something similar to confusion, recognition flickering over his features. The ruined maw of his mouth twitched: "Mat-"

Ada's booted heel caught Yong-Soo in the temple. His head snapped to the side with a sickening crack. And just as slowly as he had risen, he crumpled to the floor, lifeless. She dropped to her knees, lifted Yong-Soo's head, gave Matthew a cold look, and twisted. The shattered bones in the Korean's neck grated as she made sure her job was finished.


	12. Timestamp: 64:36:94, Command Log

**-You have not been reviewing the video logs in order. May I ask why?-**

**[There seems to be a connection between the North Americans that I may have overlooked.]**

**-What are you looking for?-**

**[Both of them are nearly identical in genetics and popular culture, despite their immense differences in government and heritage. I think I overestimated their similarities when I said the older of the two would react poorly with only a secondary infection.]**

**-You are searching for evidence on a new hypothesis. Parameters?-**

**[Canada's involvement concerning the triggers previously noted in America's devolutionary documents.]**

**-And Matthew's devolution, therein. Interesting tangent.-**

**[You believe I should investigate an alternate course?]**

**-Peter.-**

He leaned back in the chair and frowned softly, thinking it over. After a moment, he typed in a response:

**[Run all probable scenarios. Clone, if you think it necessary. Do not break your toy.]**


	13. London, England 27, 6, 2038 17:22

Francis wanted nothing more than to curl up in his armoire, with a good novella in one hand, a glass of well-aged Bordeaux in the other, and his favorite collections of Ravel and Daft Punk playing in the background. Instead, he was pressed into a wet, dirty, brick wall, holding a pair of hastily manufactured Molotovs, and he could hear the shrieks of the undead over the sounds of his labored breathing and pounding heart. The slapping of their limbs against the walls rang and their lower extremities made sick squelching noises as their feet and ankles became twisted, mangled ruin in their hurry.

It was much too dark for Francis.

Not even Bastille had frightened him so.

Those less-than-men - - - those monsters, those slaves to their need - - - sent his already addled mind reeling with panic. It made his chest tight with revulsion. He needed to be sick.

"Now?"

"Wait for it!" Arthur snapped.

Francis whined and ground his teeth, stoppering his throat with his tongue. He was going to be sick. They were getting closer; he could hear them. Like the feet of the Gestapo, he heard them coming. _Mon deu_.

"Now-?"

"I said wait!"

The keening cry of one of them pierced the air like a victorious roar, as if it knew they were there in the narrow passage. The others picked up the sound. The gurgling of torn throats and broken maws sent another surge through Francis. He saw movement in the dark.

"_ANGLETERRE_!"

"Volley!"

Both men heaved their arms and the bottles of cheap sherry created an arch of light above them. Francis briefly saw one of the corpses running toward them before it and its fellows were suddenly consumed by blossoms of rose-colored flame. They turned and ran, their footfalls sounding the same to the terrified Frenchman.

"They're gaining, _Angleterre_-!"

"Keep running, man! Don't look back and keep running! So, help me, God, I will not rescue you if you fall behind!" Arthur said.

The two men hurtled through the wet, dank dark of the tunnel. They refused to slow their pace, even when the inhuman shrieking at their backs no longer reached their ears. The tunnels continued in an endless maze. Francis was already disoriented, and he had no inkling of where under London he could possibly be. He snapped at Arthur.

"You had to stop to off those things! What was the point of all that, anyway? We were nearly eaten as a result! Again!"

"Oi!" Arthur huffed. "I bought us a nice bit of time with 'all that,' so I don't want to hear any lip from you, frog!"

Francis gave an indignant squawk: "Don't you pretend I haven't noticed! You've gotten us lost!"

"Lost! I-! I never-!" Arthur spluttered.

Francis skidded to a stop as they came to an intersection. "I adamantly refuse to go another meter of my own free will until you can adequately relate to me our exact location. And, _sil vou plait_, you tell me exactly where this tunnel to the docks is."

Arthur stopped short and threw a dirty look at the Frenchman. He flailed for a moment, making whining noises.

"Oh, sod me, Francis, I know it's only a little farther. I know it is!"

"You said that before we were ambushed by more of those rotting dogs!" Francis said. "You said that before the fucking rats! You said that before we stopped to light our little following on fire!"

"It is, Francis! And we made it through all those run-ins without a single scratch!" Arthur took a step farther down the tunnel. "C'mon, man, are you going to pull out the white flag when we've already come this far?"

Francis scowled, and Arthur could have sworn he heard the Frenchman growl. "I fully resent that. You still haven't answered my question: where the hell are we?"

"Under London! Somewhere between the docks and Parliament-"

"Anyone could have told me that!" Francis shrieked. "I'm willing to bet my whole kitchen that even one of those zombies would have given me better directions!"

Arthur glowered at Francis, rumbling filling his ears. "I'm doing my best, given the circumstances!"

Francis must have snarled, his lip pulled back to expose his teeth: "Your best might kill us! I refuse to go anywhere else with you - I'd rather be eaten alive!"

A blur flew from one of the other intersections, pushing Francis from his spot and dragging him into the dark of the adjacent tunnel.

Arthur stood there for a brief second in shock, the scream of terror jolting him to action. He drew his Enfield and charged after the hulking beast he'd glimpsed. He shot down the tunnel, gun blazing before him. The creature dropped Francis and turned on Arthur, long tongue slithering from jaws of sheer muscle and bone. It leapt toward the Britton with massive claws reaching. Arthur aimed true, lodging several bullets into where he assumed were its eyes. It shrieked and stumbled. It fell to slide through the muck of the tunnel to Arthur's feet. Slowly, he lowered his gun.

"…Francis?"

He was answered with a groan. He jogged down the tunnel to where the Frenchman lay. Francis sat up, cradling a severely mangled arm. He looked up at Arthur.

"…I take it back. I don't want to be eaten."

Arthur shook his head and helped Francis to stand, the pair limping down the tunnel away from the still-twitching carcass.


	14. Vatican City State 24, 6, 2038 16:44

Romano collapsed against the immense stonework, heaving for breath. He looked up at the face of the angel that leaned over him. Crossing himself, he followed the gaze of the angel down to the plaza below. "**Cristo, amato, come dobbiamo guardare a voi adesso** . . ."

The screaming reached to his perch so high above **Piazza di San Pietro**. **Cadaveri **filled its gate out into the streets surrounding the Holy City. They pushed and shoved and gave shrill cries as the pursued the surviving townspeople. The gore was everywhere. It broke Romano's heart, made him sick to watch. His children, young and old, were being ravaged like lambs by a horde of wolves.

He cried, then. He cried bitter tears of pain and regret. And he prayed.

After a time, Romano moved from beneath the protective shadow of the angelic statue and began to walk about the rim of the colonnade, moving toward the Vatican. Saint Peter's Basilica was a testament to the glory of God - to Romano it was a monument to the dead and the corrupt. The walls surrounding the several main buildings of Vatican City were meant to keep out curious eyes, so that His Holiness, His caretakers, His bishops, their caretakers, and the various other clergy could keep their rites in secret, peace, and comfort. A stronghold in and of itself, the Vatican was a secure place. Surely, from one nation to another, Romano could expect sanctuary.

Upon reaching the dome of the Basilica, Romano began to navigate the ribs of the structure, feeling like a street rat for all his nimbleness. The drop would be short if he were to misstep. The thought brought him a surprising grain of comfort as he continued to climb. It really would be easy, now that it crossed his mind. He really could just let go, drop to the street below, and let himself become a mess on the cobblestones. The trauma would be too great for his body to reanimate, and the fall might be long enough for him to pray -

"Romano! Italian, what are you doing?"

He nearly lost his grip on the stone, startled at the shout. He looked around, finally seeing the blond mop leaning out of a lower-level window of the housing complex just behind the Basilica. His eyes lit up.

"Vash!" Of course! The Swiss Guard!

"What are you doing up there? How did you manage such a feat?"

Romano had the grace to look sheepish: "I watched this church be built, Swiss. And I still run parkour . . . I didn't want those things to get me, so I climbed . . ." He forced a glower. "Are you going to let me in or let me fall? I'll come and eat you if you let me die!"

Vash made a face as he was pushed aside. The child could have been his twin, if not for the severe difference in height. "**Br****ü****der**, help Herr Roma inside!"

The Swiss blinked. "But, His Holiness -"

The younger blonde looked to the elder, "They'll eat him, **br****ü****der**!"

Vash sighed. He shouted out the window, "Don't let go, Italian! We'll get you down." He began to close the window.

"Wait! Wait, just leave the window open! I can make it, just clear the way!" Romano began to move along the dome again.

"Are you sure?" the little blonde called.

"**Si**, **si**, very sure!"

Romano crouched beneath his hand-holds and took a calming breath. His thighs bunched. He leapt for the window, grunting with effort, arms outstretched. His fingers grazed the windowsill before he hit the wall under it and began to slide. There was a shriek, and his arm jerked painfully by the wrist, stopping his fall. He looked up.

Vash glared down at him from where he leaned out the window, holding Romano by the arm.

Romano winced: "Well . . . mostly sure."

Vash shook his head and hauled the Italian through the window.

* * *

Vash and Lili led Romano into the depths of the Vatican. Their uniforms were surprisingly unkempt. The yellow was splattered with dark, thick blood, and the blue was dirty to the point of seeming grey. Romano worried his lip.

"How bad is it beyond the walls, Herr Roma?" Lili asked.

Romano was appalled by the brightness of her tone. He had to stop himself from snapping at her - she was too young to understand. She had knowledge of the World Wars, survived depression, but only those nearer his age had memories comparable. He looked to Vash, his expression withdrawn.

Vash's mouth grew into a frown, "Italian?"

Romano's gaze turned to the floor. "I would say the height of the plague," he said, "but even then there was hope. I doubt survival is an option, now."

Lili looked up at her brother with eyes full of questions, but Vash had already retreated into memories he wished he could forget. He wanted for his darling little sister to never have to experience such waking nightmares.

"What do you suggest we do?" he finally asked.

Romano shook his head, "Cleanse the city. But the government has gone to ground, and this horror is well beyond the city. I can feel it in my bones. Don't you?

Lili rubbed her arm. Vash tried to conceal his limp more effectively. Romano sighed through his nose.

The three walked in tense silence to the feet of two massive wooden doors. Around the two handles, a thick-linked chain had been wound and locked. Vash pulled a key ring from a hidden pocket.

"His Holiness and the clergy are inside, for their safety, of course." He twisted a key into the padlock and undid the chain. "There is no electricity, but the bell-pulls are still connected, should any emergency arise." Vash began to pull open the doors.

Lili piped up: "When should we be expecting Herr Veni?"

Romano set his hand on the door, holding it closed.

"Veneziano isn't coming."

Both blonds hid their distress well. Romano opened the door himself and disappeared into the room beyond.


End file.
